


First Class Killers

by catraverse



Category: Wanted (2008), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Comedy, Crack, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Humor, M/M, POV Alternating, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catraverse/pseuds/catraverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Wesley Xavier is just another lab rat at Shaw Pharmaceuticals. His father walked out on him when he was a baby. His best friend and co-worker, Hank, has been fucking his girlfriend, Raven, for the past 4 months. He's so pathetic, he just lets it happen under his nose. He's not sure what his boss, Emma Frost, loves more; sucking the CEO's cock, or making Charles' life at the lab a nightmare.</p><p>In fact, Charles is so pathetic that he hears voices in his head and has panic attacks. Raven only puts up with him for the apartment. They don't even sleep on the same bed anymore. Charles sleeps on the couch. He doesn't know why he doesn't just kill himself - probably because he's so pathetic, he can't even gather up the resolve to do that. Instead, he just goes by each day, nine to five, nine to five, like a lab rat waiting to die.</p><p>One fateful day, all that changes when a tall, mysterious German named Erik "Fox" Lehnsherr turns up at the laboratory and tells him he's got to avenge his father's death.</p><p>(I'm having issues with post editing/formatting and inadvertently seem to have deleted some of the comments you kind souls left in the process. I am truly sorry! >.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My name is Charles Wesley Xavier.

**Author's Note:**

> \- This fic was inspired by Quietbang's [comments](http://archiveofourown.org/works/287257?show_comments=true&view_full_work=true#comments) on another fic of mine. It started off as being a "How It's Not Going To Happen" chapter for that fic, and then grew into a whole retarded abomination of its own! Teehee.
> 
> \- This fic goes _all out_ on the revenge and ultra-violence, though _I think_ I've made fair attempts not to let it go "full derp" and added some reasoning behind it. Please do act responsibly. While I would be immensely flattered that my writing has such amazing motivational power, I cannot be held responsible if you decide to hunt down and kill that kid who called you a poopy face in primary school.
> 
> \- So I am having major issues getting used to AO3's post formatting thingmajigs. During one attempt to edit a part of a chapter, I managed to make 5 identical drafts of the same chapter, etc. and deleted those draft chapters. I'm not sure if it's a result of this, but some comments I saw previously have disappeared, which is a bit worrying. If your comment has disappeared and it's likely that it's because of my epic fail editing, I am truly sorry!

* * *

Tuesday, 6th December, 2011

  


18:45PM

  


Charles Wesley Xavier's Apartment

  


* * *

 

My name is Charles Wesley Xavier. I am 25 years old. I am just another lab rat at Shaw Pharmaceuticals. I graduated from the Cassidy Community College just around the corner with a degree in genetics, hoping to snag a scholarship to go to the more respectable Cassidy State University for a Masters degree... then I got two letters in the mail among all the junk with fake plastic car keys screaming "YOU WON FIVE FERRARIS, TWO BOATS, AND A FUCKING ISLAND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN! TERMS AND CONDITIONS APPLY."

One was a rejection letter from the review committee that awards merit-based scholarships. The other was a rejection letter from the review committee that awards needs-based scholarships. They both read the same way.

 

> Dear Mr. Charles Wesley Xavier–
> 
> We regret to inform you that you have been unsuccessful in your bid for both the merit-based and need-based scholarships to Cassidy State University. If you are still interested in pursuing graduate-level studies in what is probably the single most useless biology-related degree that one could have the misfortune to have chosen upon entering community college, we advise you to sign up for a brain transplant, or apply for a job as a cashier at your nearest Walmart for the next thirty years of your pathetic, ultimately meaningless existence.
> 
> Yours in total failure,
> 
> The Scholarship Committee

 

What this means is that I am neither intelligent enough nor poor enough to afford further education. Apparently A- just doesn't cut it for them. It's true, I've got a little bit of money in the bank, which I've been saving up for over 15 years from odd jobs – mowing Mrs. Hetfield's dog crap-infested lawn, delivering newspapers to crack addicts who would try to feel my ass if I got too close, and serving coffee to cranky old women at the café on the corner. I suppose I _could_ afford to send myself to graduate school, but only if I also hold down a full-time job, work the graveyard shift at the local supermarket, and live on three saltine crackers a day, while also attending lab hours at the university and writing a thesis. I guess it could have been a viable option if my mutation was to be at several places at the same time, and if I didn't need to eat.

You think that's one thing that I've got going for me, right? That I'm a mutant? Nope. Being a telepath is basically a chronic illness. I can't go to crowded places because all the thoughts and emotions dripping from everybody is just too much. If I went on the underground, I'll get a migraine, or pass out. Sometimes, Mr. and Mrs. Lorraine having a screaming match next door is enough to set me off.

I really think I could have landed a better job if I had received a scholarship and got my Masters degree in Genetics. They told me at the interview that this was a Lab Helper position, but they threw money at some crackpot armed with a degree in Workplace Psychology to raise "laboratory morale" and now my position is Pharmaceutical Research and Utility Development Engineer. Otherwise known as PRUDE. Basically, it means that I push paperwork and clean the laboratory after Hank McCoy.

Oh, let me tell you about McCoy. Hank McCoy and I went to Cassidy Community College _together_. We studied genetics _together_. We applied for the research positions here at Shaw Pharmaceuticals _together_. We sat for our genetics finals _together_ , and we both got A-s _together_. Then why is he my superior, you ask? Because he's fucking _blue_. They have a mutant non-discrimination policy here at Shaw Pharmaceuticals that says they don't hire people based on whether they're humans or mutants. Which of course means that when there are two candidates with the exactly the same background, same degree, same qualifications, and the same grade, they give the position to the one that looks _weird_ , the one with the physical mutation everyone stares at.

It's true, I'm more pathetic than some guy who has a genetic condition that makes blue fur grow all over his body. That's right, he looks like he's dressed up for a furry convention 24/7, and has the sexual drive for it, too. Though he stopped masturbating with our test tubes a few months ago. I guess that's one thing I have to be thankful for; I don't have to scrub out ungodly amounts of viscous white cum from the test tubes anymore. To thank me for being pasty white and normal, Hank sticks his blue furry penis into my girlfriend, Raven Darkholme. I believe she calls him "Beast". I don't think I want to know why.

I guess it helps because she's blue, too - although she doesn't have fur all over her body, and she can change into whatever form she wants at will. I guess there's all kinds of opportunities for someone like her to satisfy a closeted fetishist like Hank McCoy in bed. Whatever. I don't really want to think about it.

What's that? I'm not a loser because I have a girlfriend? You're absolutely wrong, my friend. Hank has been screwing my so-called girlfriend for at least 4 months, and I have done absolutely nothing about it. I should probably care, and I should probably be angry, but I'm finding it really difficult to care about anything these days. In fact, the only thing I care about is that I don't care about anything at all. In any case, Raven only puts up with me and lists herself as being in a relationship with me on Facebook because she needs a roof over her head, and my apartment does a reasonably good job, although the roof does leak Mrs. Hunterton's piss once in a while. Hank is a cheap asshole and still lives with his mother, so that's apparently not an option.

They don't even let me do the actual experiments because Hank would be responsible if I fuck up. He doesn't trust me. Basically, I clean petri dishes and test tubes all day. I could have gotten the same job at some restaurant without wasting four years of my life at college. In fact, I'm more pathetic than Azazel, that Russian guy who scrapes animal fat off the dishes at Janos' Tex-Mex Place, because at least Janos feeds Azazel the awful greasy crap he calls food, lunch and dinner. A heart attack will probably put Azazel out of his misery within the next 2 years. In 2 years I'd probably still be hyperventilating in the laboratory and popping pills.

Pills, oh god, pills. They are the story of my fucking life. The coffee table in front of my TV looks like a pharmacy. That's right, coffee table, not bedside table, because I sleep on the couch. Apart from the two prescription drugs I have for my panic attacks, there's five different types of painkillers depending on the severity of the headache, from "crying and throwing up in the bathroom" to "hiding in the closet and wishing I would die already". There's three types of antacids - cherry flavour, blueberry flavour, and strawberry flavour. I'm a sucker for berry flavoured things. And then there's the Viagra I keep for the rare occasion when Raven wants to fuck me while I lie there like planking is still in fashion. I think she considers it masturbation.

Since she started inviting Hank over, this hasn't happened much, for which I am eternally grateful. There's nothing more uncomfortable than having your girlfriend slide up and down on your chemically induced erection when all you want to do is sleep. Take it from me, it's not much fun being a human dildo when you know your penis is going up the same hole into which your best friend squirted his humanly impossible cumloads.

And yes, congratulations for pointing it out! I _do_ need Viagra to get an erection. I don't really feel sexual desires anymore. I can't remember the last time I masturbated. At some point in time, I used to think Raven was the hottest thing in the world - the first time I saw her, I was so turned on I came in my pants right then and there. Now when I look at her, all I see is a mound of flesh waiting to die. Well, that's not exactly fair - she's more like a sack of bones. But seriously, I just don't function sexually anymore. I think it's just Mother Nature's way of begging me not to reproduce.

I doubt anyone apart from Hank would notice if I decided not to turn up to work one day. Well, I guess Frost would, since she likes to come into the laboratory on Tuesdays and Thursdays to check up on the research. Frost is a telepath who can turn into diamond. Rumour has it that the CEO of Shaw Pharmaceuticals, Sebastian Shaw, likes having his dick sucked while Frost is in diamond mode. Depending on how narrow Frost's throat is, I guess that could classify as some kind of torture fetish.

It would make sense, because she is something of an expert in torture. She knows I'm a telepath too, and likes to mess with my head by making it look like the test tubes and petri dishes I'm washing are snakes and spiders. That's right, I'm terrified of both. Me being a telepath, I guess I could block her, but I'm to terrified to try. You don't know how many times I've screamed and dropped the test tube or petri dish I happen to be holding. Once, I dropped the entire basket of test tubes and petri dishes and fainted face-first into the smashed glass. The medical insurance paid for the hospital stay, but I had to pay out of my pocket to replace the broken equipment. I survived on instant ramen for two months, lost 20 pounds, and walked around with rashes all over my body because of an allergic reaction to the MSG. Nobody would touch me because everyone thought I was a rent boy with an STD.

She also likes scratching at the blackboard in the lab in her diamond form. She knows screeching sounds really get on my nerves and give me panic attacks. Long story short, it's because a bully took my favourite toy car apart in front of my eyes in kindergarten and used its parts to scratch the blackboard. Or so my psychotherapist says. Did I mention my psychotherapist actually thinks that I am a total loser? Psychotherapists are supposed to be understanding and neutral and refrain from judging their patients... but when I told mine about keeping three different flavours of antacids, she laughed _in my face_. That's right, even my psychotherapist, who is paid to listen to me whine and bellyache about my life, has given up on me.

I wonder if that was how my father felt when he looked down at my pudgy face for the first time at St. Alexander's Hospital. Did he think to himself, _have I just fathered the most insignificant asshole of the 20th century_? Was that why he left, to find a more beautiful, intelligent wife, who would hopefully bear him some half-decent kids?

Speaking of beautiful, intelligent wives, my mother was an alcoholic who wouldn't be able to stand on her two feet by the time the clock hit 3PM. I grew up watching her grab money out of the pockets of the dregs of society - pedophiles who got her to dress up in oversized school uniforms, and the worst kind of fetishists, who made her do things I'm not going to talk about for the sake of your sanity. Let's just say it took at least a month for the smell to go out of the living room carpet. She was so desperate for her alcohol fix that she would pretty much open up her legs anyone who presented her with something that vaguely resembled a penis and a wad of cash.

Of course, she kicked me out of the house on the very day that I turned 18. The one thing I can thank her for is that she was very predictable. I saw it coming and had saved up a bit of money in a cookie jar in my room. I stayed in student housing until I graduated and landed this job. I speak about her in the past tense because I have no idea where she is, or if she's still alive. The last time I saw her, she was passed out on the corner of Ballister Road with something that looked like a dollar bill hanging from her nose.

Well, I guess you must be almost as pathetic as I am, because you just spent 10 minutes of your life reading about my pathetic life.

* * *


	2. A New Assignment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik "Fox" Lehnsherr, star assassin, is informed of his new assignment: recruiting and training a certain Charles Wesley Xavier.

* * *

  


Tuesday, 6th December, 2011

19:00

Erik "Fox" Lehnsherr's Apartment

  


* * *

Erik Lehnsherr took a deep breath and sank back into his wooden seat with his customary evening drink of Scotch. It had been another productive day, and the pistol lying on his coffee table needed servicing, but that could wait until a little later. There was always the spare one attached to his belt, if someone decided to sneak into his apartment - but that was reasonably unlikely, given the new security system that Mayhem had installed last week. He took a swig of Scotch, swallowing and savouring the aftertaste.

The sharp beeping of his phone interrupted his evening Scotch, and he glared at his phone, which lay next to his gun. He set his Scotch down, and picked it up. A familiar icon flashed on the screen. He looked around casually out of habit, flicked a button, and lifted the phone to one ear.

"Loom?"

"It's Weaver. You've got a new assignment."

"Who's next?"

"Charles Wesley Xavier. 25 years old. Mutant. Employee at Shaw Pharmaceuticals. Lives on Block 21, 4th Avenue. Apartment number #7-82. Leaves the house at 8:15AM every morning, rides his pastel blue Vespa to Shaw Pharmaceuticals, Cassidy Branch at 36 Naranja, arrives at precisely 8:45AM. Leaves work at 5:30PM, sometimes stops by at the convenience store on 6th Avenue. Comes home by 6:30PM. Same pattern every weekday. Saturdays he goes to St. Alexander's Hospital to see Dr. Jean Grey, a psychotherapist. Leaves the house at 1:45PM, arrives at the hospital at 2:00PM, leaves at 3:45PM, and gets back home at 4:00PM. Sundays he just sleeps at home. Oh, and he seems to live with Raven Darkholme, 24 years old, but her patterns are completely different. Hank McCoy, 25, comes in every other day when Xavier isn't home. Darkholme and McCoy are both mutants too. You may need to watch out for Darkholme; she shape-shifts. McCoy is harmless."

Erik was used to Weaver getting carried away like this. His right hand was already scribbling down the necessary details as she talked. He considered the information he had just jotted down, and raised an eyebrow.

"I don't mean any disrespect, Weaver, but why are we taking this kid down? Seems harmless to me."

"I'm not sure what he did to deserve it, but he's a new recruit. Your job is to rope him in and train him."

" _What_?"

"You heard me, Fox."

"You've never given me a new recruit before."

"This one needs you."

"And I need him like I need two left legs, I'm sure."

"Good luck. I'll be sending more details by email."

No sooner had Erik put his phone down and walked over to his desk when his laptop gave a beep. He tapped a few keys on his laptop in order to open the email and its attachments. The email had also been sent to Monocle, Shriek, and Mayhem. Erik went back to retrieve his Scotch, and sat down at his desk to read.

 

> LOOM & WEAVER LIMITED.
> 
> NEW RECRUIT: CHARLES W XAVIER (#A00218CX)
> 
> MENTOR: FOX
> 
> ASSIGNED DATE: 6 DEC 2011
> 
>  
> 
> Note: Recruit has no known combat skills nor is in possession of any useful equipment. Intensive training and equipment issue is necessary. Bill all resulting costs to the Accounts Dept. as required.
> 
> Budget: US$50,000
> 
> URGENT. Xavier must complete first assignment ASAP. Mentor's task is to train him for the assignment in as short a time period as possible.
> 
>  
> 
> Facts:
> 
>   
> 
>   *   
> 25 years old
>   
> 
>   *   
> Known mutant - telepathy
>   
> 
>   *   
> Employer: Shaw Pharmaceuticals (SP). Position: Pharmaceutical Research and Utility Development Engineer - has held position for 3 years
>   
> 
>   *   
> Graduate of Cassidy Community College (Bachelor of Science, Genetics) - graduated in 2008, and Cassidy High School - graduated in 2004.
>   
> 
>   *   
> Known family: Brian Xavier (father), Sharon Gibson (mother)
>   
> 
>   *   
> Brian Xavier left when Xavier was 3 months old. Was raised by Sharon Gibson until he reached the age of 18, at which he moved out to live at the Cassidy Community College student lodge. Roommate was Hank McCoy, who is now Xavier's immediate superior at SP.
>   
> 
>   *   
> Lives at Block 21, 4th Avenue. Apartment number #7-82 with Raven Darkholme.
>   
> 
>   *   
> In a relationship with Darkholme ( _Note_. Monocle notes that she is having an affair with McCoy, who visits Xavier's apartment when he is not home.)
>   
> 
  
> 
> 
> Contacts:
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
>   *   
> Monocle - has been in charge of tracking Xavier's movements for the past two weeks.
>   
> 
>   *   
> Shriek - has been in charge of hacking into Xavier's computer in order to obtain information.
>   
> 
>   *   
> Mayhem - will fit Xavier with bullet-proof standard issue once he has been recruited.
>   
> 
>   *   
> Weaver - project coordinator and advisor.
>   
> 
  
> 
> 
>   
> 

Erik had to admit that this was quite intriguing. Since he had never trained a new recruit before, he had never received an email like this. His usual emails were brief, and to the point. _X will be at point Y at time Z. Take him down._ That sort of thing. He sighed and tubbed his eyes in disbelief. What had he done to deserve this? He had served under the Brotherhood, known generally as Loom  & Weaver Limited, for as long as he could remember. Erik Lehnsherr came from a proud family of assassins; his family had been working for Loom & Weaver for two generations before him. His grandfather was the great Maximilian Lehnsherr, a Jewish assassin who had single-handedly orchestrated the assassination of Adolf Hitler, marking the end of World War II. Max Lehnsherr and his son Jakob Lehnsherr, Erik's father, had been responsible for the tracking and capture of the majority of the former Nazis who had fled to places such as South America. Erik had grown up watching his grandfather and his father, and although they had always told him that he was free to choose his own path in life, he had always known that he too would follow in their footsteps.

Max Lehnsherr had since died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound – Erik did not like to call it suicide, nor did he believe it to be the typical "suicide" that he read about; people who had grown sick of life, who were miserable and wanted to escape the monotony of life without trying to fix the situation for themselves. Grandfather Max had gone out of his own accord. It had been a planned act, a completely lucid decision. The Lehnsherrs had succeeded in identifying and bringing to justice all of the former Nazis who had fled Germany, and with that, there had been nothing more for Max Lehnsherr to do. Max Lehnsherr had defined his very existence in bringing justice for his people. He had died a happy man, desiring nothing more from life, and had simply left the physical realm in order to join God.

Erik did not believe in God; he was a far more cynical man than Grandfather Max - but there was no one whom he respected more than his grandfather. He was his inspiration and his motivation. The one ornament in his apartment that did not have any practical purpose related in any way to Erik's work or his survival was a single framed photograph of the three Lehnsherr assassins; Grandfather Max, Jakob, and Erik, standing together with their weaponry. Erik had only been a teenager when the photograph was taken.

Erik was the only living Lehnsherr in that photograph. Jakob had been killed just three years ago in a particularly dangerous assignment involving certain very important executives from an oil company. The target had been a very important, wealthy man who was constantly surrounded by bodyguards, and the assignment was so important that only Jakob Lehnsherr had been entrusted to the task. He had fulfilled his task - shooting the man point-blank in the heart after taking out all 23 of his guards - but the man had shot back at Jakob, and he had died of his wounds before the ambulances could reach him.

It was, then with a certain sense of resentment that Erik looked at the information Weaver had given him about the new recruit that he was supposed to train. Neither Max nor Jakob had been given the task of training new recruits, ever, in their lifetimes; Erik was the first Lehnsherr to be given this task. Given his family's servitude to Loom & Weaver, Erik had expected that his new recruit would at least be _assassin material_ \- the sort of man Lehnsherr could count on in a pinch, if he ever did get into a pinch. And now, he was expected to partner with this Charles Wesley Xavier and groom him for his first assignment, which needed to be completed "ASAP", which in Loom  & Weaver terms, usually meant a month or less.

Erik shook his head in disbelief as he read through the "diary entry" (See Chapter 1) that Shriek had obtained from Charles Wesley Xavier's computer. The man clearly had no sense of self-respect, discipline, nor any direction in life. If Erik had learnt anything about being an assassin from fifteen years of first-hand experience, it was the importance of, among other things, determination and self-discipline. This man clearly lacked both.

Erik looked at the attached photograph of Xavier. He was not usually one to judge men by their appearance; Shriek, for example, looked more like a stoned musician who had just stepped out of a jazz bar than a professional assassin and hacker, but he was good - which was a supreme compliment, given Erik Lehnsherr's disposition. But this Xavier looked unsuited to the job on a different scale. The photograph showed him next to his motorcycle - a pastel blue Vespa, that looked as if something a toddler might ride at a carnival - preparing to go home from his laboratory at Shaw Pharmaceuticals. At a glance Erik could tell that the man did not regularly engage in any sort of physical activity; he was pasty white, and looked decidedly underfed. Given his job, Erik supposed that he probably struggled to pay the food bills or purchase anything that was remotely nutritious. But it was really his face that Erik found completely appalling. If Erik's eyes served him right, he seemed to have been  _crying_ \- his eyes were red and swollen, and there were streaks on his cheeks where the tears seemed to have dried up. And he was supposed to train this man to be an _assassin_? A world-class _Loom & Weaver_ assassin, no less? Erik massaged his temple.

His phone gave a beep - this time a text message, not a call.

> Please don't think too badly of us. Put it this way; nobody but a Lehnsherr would be able to train this guy because he is so pathetic. Take him on your next mission, show him the ropes. -W.

Erik sighed through his teeth, and typed a quick reply.

> Fine. Don't complain when I die from the kid's mistakes. -EL.

The reply came almost as soon as he hit "Send".

> He's 25. You're 32. Do the math. Not much difference. Now go to bed, kid. -L.

It was typical Loom, using monosyllabic words wherever possible. He put the phone back into his pocket and looked back up at his laptop, opening up the next attachment. This one looked more familiar.

 

> LOOM & WEAVER LIMITED.
> 
> ASSIGNMENT #M0185CX
> 
> ASSIGNED DATE: 6 DEC 2011
> 
> ASSIGNED TO: CHARLES WESLEY XAVIER
> 
>  
> 
> TARGET: KURT MARKO
> 
> LEVEL: URGENT, COMPLETE WITHIN 2 MONTHS FROM DATE OF ASSIGNMENT
> 
>  
> 
> Facts:
> 
>   
> 
>   *   
> 56 years old, white Caucasian male, 6"1, average build, black eyes, black hair
>   
> 
>   *   
> CEO of Marko Medical
>   
> 
>   *   
> Has been kidnapping and murdering top scientists in the country, including Dr. Patricia Moore (Genetics, Harvard), Dr. Martin Moore (Genetics, Harvard), Prof. Linda de Winne (Biochemistry, Princeton), Dr. Jean-Pierre Teyssier (Genetics, MIT), and Prof. Seumas Macnair (Genetics, MIT).
>   
> 
>   *   
> Responsible for the recent death of Dr. Brian Xavier, researcher in genetics at Macnair Institute.
>   
> 
  
> 
> 
>   
> Contacts:
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
>   *   
> Fox - mentor, backup, weaponry. Report progress to Fox.
>   
> 
>   *   
> Monocle - information on Marko's whereabouts, patterns of activity, etc.
>   
> 
>   *   
> Shriek - will obtain further information if necessary
>   
> 
>   *   
> Mayhem - contact for bullet-proof standard issue (compulsory)
>   
> 
  
> 
> 
>   
> 

 

Erik raised an eyebrow, and looked back at the previous attachment. He sat back and took another swig of Scotch, swilling it around in his mouth to savour its sharp taste. He shut the lid on his laptop, and paced around the room, neatly clipped fingernails occasionally tapping his Scotch glass.

 _Now this is starting to get interesting_ , he thought. Charles Wesley Xavier's first assignment was to assassinate the man who was responsible for his long lost father's death. There was an element of retribution here that Erik liked. He looked up at the picture hanging on his wall. The hint of a smile curled at the edge of his thin lips. Even if it was impossible to groom Xavier into a proper assassin worthy of Loom & Weaver, he had a personal incentive at least to complete his first assignment. And Erik was quite willing to help him do that.

He took out his phone again, and dialled Monocle's number from memory.

"Good evening, Foxy Boy. Thought'cha might call."

"Evening, Monocle. I wanted to ask about the patterns of activity for A00218CX."

"Charles Wesley Xavier?"

"Yes. Weaver said he leaves work at 5:30PM?"

"Aye, he does. His work officially ends at 5:00PM, but from what it looks like, he's so terrified of his boss that he works 30 minutes overtime every day. He always comes out exactly at 5:30PM from the office building, then walks over to the employee's carpark. He rides a light blue Vespa - the only one. Should be easy to spot. You hoping to snag him tomorrow?"

"I am."

"Good choice. Tomorrow's a Wednesday, and that's one day on which his girlfriend's schedule is regular. She only gets back on Wednesdays at 10PM, so you have about 3 and a half hours before anyone suspects he's missing."

"That's assuming his girlfriend actually cares where he is."

Monocle laughed. "Aye, you're right."

"Well, thanks for your help."

"No problem. Good luck with the assignment."

"And the same with yours. Good night."

"Cheers."

Erik put his phone down on the counter, and took a toolkit out from his cabinet. He sat down back at his sofa again and began to work on his pistol. Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day.

 

 


	3. A New Recruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has a terrible day at work - but the day takes a turn for the worse when he bumps into Erik Lehnsherr in the employees' car park.

### Chapter Text

  


* * *

 

Wednesday, 7th December, 2011  
Shaw Pharmaceuticals  
Research Laboratory - 3D  


 

* * *

 Charles sighed as he finished scrubbing the last test tube in the basket and placed it into the vat of disinfectant. Hank was whistling loudly as he packed test tubes full of samples into a centrifuge, and it was starting to give him a headache. For a gigantic blue beast like him, his whistling was high, sharp, and annoying. The sound stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the quiet whirring of the lab equipment, like an incessant piccolo chirping away in the middle of an otherwise peaceful aria.

"Can't you cut it for just a little bit, Hank?"

"Eh?"

"The whistling."

"Oh. Sorry about that, Charlie boy."

Hank stopped for a few moments, and then began to whistle again, more shrilly than ever. Charles rolled his eyes, and reached inside his lab coat pocket for an emergency pill. He was about to pop it into his mouth and dry-swallow it when the lab door suddenly opened. Charles coughed and spat the pill out into the vat of disinfectant. Emma Frost appeared at the doorway, her blonde hair done up in a tight bun over her head. Like most days she wore a white suit. Today's suit featured a set of large lapels that accentuated her busty figure. Charles quickly wheeled his chair in front of the vat of disinfectant. Hank forced a terrible grin that looked as if he had just downed a tube full of wasabi as a dare.

"Well, look who it is! Good afternoon, Miss Frost!"

Charles gave a squeak in agreement. Frost walked quietly into the laboratory, her white heels clinking ominously against the linoleum floor as she did so. She looked at Hank's workstation and the spinning centrifuge.

"So those are the samples Shaw ordered, then?"

"Y-yes, Miss Frost."

She pored over the centrifuge as it spinned. For someone who stood at least two feet shorter and knew close to nothing about the science behind the experiments, it was incredible how much fear she inspired in the furry, blue man. Charles could see the fur on the back of his neck bristling and twitching.

But presently, Charles was more concerned with the pill he had inadvertently spat into the vat of disinfectant. The pill was now floating conspicuously on the surface, fizzing softly as it did so. He dipped his hand into the disinfectant, trying to catch the pill - but it kept slipping away from his fingers. Charles twisted around to look at the vat behind him and was grabbing at the pill when he felt something cold on his neck.

He turned around to find himself face-to-face with Emma Frost. Charles squealed in alarm - he backed his chair up further towards the vat of disinfectant, and the chair slipped, depositing Charles head-first into the vat. Frost watched icily with her hands on her hips as Charles flailed around. Hank ran and scooped Charles out by the arm, desperately suppressing laughter.

"MY EYESSSSSSSS IT'S IN MY EYESSSSS OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO GO BLIIIIIIIIND!!" he screamed, as he coughed and spluttered on the floor. Hank pulled him up to his feet, lifted him by the underarms, and stuck his head into a sink. He turned on the tap and let the stream of water shoot into Charles' face while he held him up by his legs. For all it was worth, it looked as if Hank was "banging" Charles against the sink. Frost looked on, her lips curling with impatience.

Unfortunately, Charles continued to flail in the sink in an attempt to get away from the stream of water that was hitting him in the face. As he tried to lift himself out of the sink, the tap hit the middle of his forehead with an awful _bang_ , and Charles blacked out. Hank let go of his legs in alarm, and the conquest of Charles Wesley Xavier was complete; the back of his head hit the bottom of the metal sink with another awful clang, and he lay unconscious, soaked in a mixture of disinfectant and water, with a reddening ring in the middle of his forehead.

When Charles came to, he found himself lying on the floor of the laboratory with a massive ice pack strapped to his face. He panicked, thinking he had gone blind, and tried to speak, but his facial muscles were so slackened by the freezing cold that all he could manage was a "Hurrrrrrrrrr." He touched his face and removed the ice pack. The bright laboratory lights hit his face, and he squinted. "Fnnnnnnhhhhrrrrrrr!!"

Hank wheeled over on his chair, and pored over. "Looks like he's come to, Miss Frost." Hank helped Charles sit up against the cabinet.

"How are you feeling, Charlie boy?"

"Fhhhhhhhhhhng."

"All right. Er, Miss Frost, would you like to have that word with him now?"

Frost clanked over to where Charles sat, massaging his cheeks with his palms in an attempt to get them to move properly, and managing to look like a duck. He cowered back as Frost stood over him, a half-melted paracetamol in her palm.

"Might this be what you were looking for in the vat?"

"Hfnnnnnnnnnnn!" Charles nodded, his breathing growing faster.

"Well, that's just fantastic, isn't it, Charles Xavier? You can stay back for as long as you need today to wash all of those test tubes again. Hank here needs them for his experiments tomorrow. You've contaminated them with this little pill _and_ the top half of your body. We need those test tubes completely clean for the experiments, do you understand? One trace of foreign material and the experiments could go completely wrong. And if the experiments go wrong, you know what is at stake. Don't you?"

"Hnnnnnnnnnrrrff."

"And make sure you wash the vat and replace all of the disinfectant first."

"Hnnnnnnnnyes miss," said Charles, his mouth finally functional. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

"Get to work, then," she said, and spun around, flicking the half-melted paracetamol back into the vat. She gave Charles one last glare before walking out of the laboratory, closing the door behind her with a loud _wham_.

Charles breathed faster and faster as his face grew more and more red, the veins in his forehead standing out grotesquely. He flailed and searched in his lab coat pockets for his medication. He successfully located and opened the bottle, but his hands were shaking so violently that he spilt its contents onto the floor.

"Fuuuuuuuuuck," he mumbled, an impossible sound that was somewhere between a shout and a whimper. Hank rolled his eyes, and threw a paper bag in Charles' direction. Charles grabbed three pills from the floor, popped them into his mouth, and breathed into the paper bag.

"Oh my god Charles, you really need to stop freaking out. Frost isn't that scary if you do your job right."

"Says... the... person... whose hair... was standing... on end... like... a terrified cat..." said Charles, through gasps. Unfortunately, the retort was not nearly as convincing as it could have been.

"Be careful, Charles. I could put you in jail on a count of mutant discrimination."

"I'm... a... mu... mutant... too!"

"Yeah, and what can you do? Fall head-first into a vat of disinfectant and hyperventilate on the floor. Some mutant superpower."

"You're... blue.. and furry!"

Hank growled. "You better get back to work before I ask Frost to come back, Charles."

Charles knew he would do no such thing, but supposed he should begin washing the 160 test tubes that he had managed to contaminate if he hoped to get home anytime before nine. Nine was his limit. After nine, the gangs, and other dangerous people would be out on the street. No one would be around to help him if he was attacked, and the idea of being chased by armed men in balaclavas while he went home injected fear into his heart. He tossed the paper bag onto an empty space on the counter and began to clean up the mess.

 

* * *

 

Wednesday, 7th December, 2011  
Shaw Pharmaceuticals, Employees' Car Park  
&  
Winston Building, 8th Street  


 

* * *

 Erik glanced at his watch. He had located Xavier's Vespa, and had checked the number plate against the information that he had on his phone. He supposed Xavier was working overtime. He knew that patience was a virtue, but he disliked it when his expectations were not met - mostly because his assassination assignments were always very precise. The target was expected to be at a certain place at a certain time, and Loom & Weaver's instructions had never been more than five minutes off. There was also the important matter of an assignment that he hoped to bring Charles along to later. He was beginning to consider the idea of meeting Xavier on another day when a familiar figure came sauntering out of the building, bent over with a rucksack on his back. His head was downcast, and he was walking towards the Vespa when he looked up and noticed Erik. His walking slowed to a halt, and he looked around as if he was looking for a way to escape. Finally, he took two baby steps closer to Erik and the Vespa.

"Excuse me," he squeaked. "That's my bike..."

Erik nodded. "Charles Wesley Xavier." It was not a question.

"W-w-wha-how do you know my name?"

"I know a lot of things about you. For example, your father jumped from the top of a 23-storey building just this morning. Needless to say, he didn't survive. I give my condolences."

" _What?_ My father walked..."

"...out on you when you were a baby. He'd been trying to contact you all these years. I suppose you know about the voices on your head?"

"How do you know about that?"

"Never mind that. Do you still hear it?"

"Are you from Dr. Grey's office?"

"No, I don't work with psychotherapists."

"Wait... what... how do you know that? I mean... wha... _have you been stalking me_?"

"Have _I_ been stalking you? No. Have my _associates_ been stalking you? Yes."

"Oh my god... ohmygod... you're going to murder me, aren't you? Look, I'm sorry, I haven't done anything wrong, it must be some kind of mistake, oh god... please, I'm not a bad person..."

Erik sighed through his teeth. "Xavier, I am not here to murder you, at least, if you answer my question. Do you still hear those voices in your head?"

"I heard them when I was in my shower last night, it's probably some idiot from high school spying on me from my window. They're always taunting me... Charles Wesley Xavier, Charles Wesley-"

"Do you hear it _now_?"

Charles thought for a moment. "...no."

"That was your father. He knew you were a telepath and had been trying to contact you through that medium."

"Wait... so... you know I'm a telepath?"

"You're a pathetic one, but yes, I suppose you _are_ a telepath."

"But... but... wha... how..."

"Look, Xavier, I don't have time for this. Get in the car." He pointed at a black Lexus convertible parked next to the Vespa. It stood out, as it did not have a Shaw Pharmaceuticals company tag.

"But my bike..."

"We can pick it up later. You are coming with me."

"Nooooooo please don't kidnap meeee! I don't have any money!"

Erik gave up and thrust his hand towards Charles, lifting him by the metal on his belt and swiftly depositing him into the passenger's seat as he wailed. He slipped into the driver's seat and started the car immediately.

"How did you do tha-WOAHHHHHHHHHHH"

Charles screamed as the car screeched, turning at a right angle past the Shaw Pharmaceuticals building and out onto the street. Charles' seat belt slid its way past his torso and locked itself into its socket.

"Are you a telekinetic?"

"I control metal."

"Where are you taking me to?"

"My workplace."

"Where is...AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The car narrowly avoided hitting a truck as it sped past a red light.

"Oh god... ohmygodohmygod... I don't know where you're taking me to, but oh god, please drive safely..."

Erik decided to stop trying to make Charles feel comfortable, and let go of the car controls as they wove their way in and out of the evening traffic.

"OH MY GOD OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WE'RE GOING TO DIE, WE'RE BOTH GOING TO DIE, OH GOD PLEASE HELP ME..."

Charles attempted to reach out for the steering wheel with his left hand. Erik fastened the hand down by the metal of Charles' watch, and tightened the seat belt.

"Believe me, it's safer this way," explained Erik. He calmly took his pistol out of his coat pocket, double-checking it.

"OH MY GOOOOOOOOD OH MY GOD YOU HAVE A GUN! YOU HAVE A GUN! PLEASE DON'T SHOOT ME! PLEASE DON'T SHOOOT MEEEEEEEEE!"

"My employer is paying fifty grand to train you to be like me. I'm not about to shoot you unless I want my ass fired. Which I assure you, I don't."

Erik brought the car to a halt next to a skyscraper, and with a wave of his hand, wound down the roof of the car. He passed Charles a pair of smaller pistols, and when Charles refused to take them, he put them into his lap. He undid Charles' seat belt with a flick of a finger. Charles panted, throwing his head back in his seat, on the verge of hyperventilating.

"Ohhhhhhh my god. You're _insane_ and you need to be locked up. Ohhhhh I think I'm going to be sick." He tried the door. It was bolted shut. "Let me out! Ohhhhh god pleease let me out. Let me go home. I beg you, please."

"You might want to hold onto those pistols."

Charles began to sob. "Why?"

"Just do it."

The pistols floated in front of Charles' chest. No sooner had Charles reluctantly put his hands on the guns did he find himself shooting upwards, out of the roof of the car, into the air.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!"

Erik levitated both of them up to the 56th floor of the skyscraper. A great glass window spread out before them, revealing a round table surrounded by at least 10 executives in suits. Ignoring Charles' screams, Erik shattered the glass window with one well-aimed shot, and landed in the middle of the table. Meanwhile, Charles was dangling outside by the pistols in his hands and the belt on his pants. He was in obvious discomfort, his pants biting sharply into his crotch in supporting his weight. He squirmed, but chose hanging onto the pistols for deal life over attempting to prevent damage to his reproductive organs.

Inside the office, the guns in Erik's coat pointed at the executives. It was quite a miraculous sight. The guns stuck out of Erik's coat, giving him the appearance of a metal octopus. He fired and took out all but one of the men in suits. The large man who had been sitting directly in front of the drawing board, presumably the leader of the group, had fallen to the floor in shock, and was backing up into the wall behind him. With a wave of his hand, Erik drifted a screaming Charles into the room.

"OH MY GOD OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THESE ARE ALL INNOCENT PEOPLE! YOU CAN'T KILL THEMMMMMMOHMYGOOOOOOOOOD!"

"Negative," Erik muttered, as he took a knife out from its sheath and ran towards the large man, stabbing him between the legs with one swift movement. The man's mouth opened into an O, as if he could not believe that a knife had just been inserted into his testicles. The knife stood perpendicular to the man's body, its hilt adorned with a Nazi swastika. Erik's grandfather had always carried this knife with him on his assignments, and it had been passed down to his father. Now it was in Erik's possession. Its original meaning was now lost, but Erik carried the knife now as a homage to his father and grandfather before him, and made sure that it played a role in all of his assignments. The large man panted, sweat dripping down his chubby face, and looked up at Erik.

"Who are you?"

"Erik Lehnsherr of Loom & Weaver. I'd also like to introduce my accomplice, Charles Wesley Xavier, also of Loom & Weaver."

He swept Charles towards them with a flick of his hand.

"NOOO I DON'T WORK FOR HIMMM!! I'M SORRYYYY!!!!"

"As you can see, he is not used to his job yet. I was hoping you would help him."

The large man looked up at Charles, who was bobbing up and down in mid-air, with fear.

"Xavier. Take the knife out of the man's testicles and stab him in the throat." Erik put Charles down onto the floor. His legs buckled and he landed on his knees.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO PLEEEEEEEEEEASE I CAAAAAAAN'T!"

"Put him out of his misery, Xavier."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO..." wailed Charles, sobbing and hiccuping.

Erik sighed. He seized Charles' left hand by the metal of his watch, and led it towards the knife. "Hold it."

"I WOOOOOON'T, YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY, I WOOON'T!"

Illuminated by the light of the office, Erik noticed the fading red ring on Charles' forehead for the first time. Threatening Charles with a gun would not work; he probably did not have enough regard for his own life. He decided to take a different approach.

"What's that on your forehead?"

Charles turned around towards Erik, completely thrown off by this unexpected question. "Huh?"

Erik pointed to his own forehead. "You've got a mark there."

"It was an accident, okay? Why are you asking me this? Pleeeeease, let me go!"

"Did your boss hit you with a donut?"

Something in Charles' eyes flashed.

"I bet you're so pathetic, your boss could hit you with a donut and give you that mark. Did you roll on the floor and cry? Did McCoy laugh at you?"

"How do you know about Ha-"

"He's also sleeping with Raven, did you know that? He's been screwing your girlfriend behind your back, sticking that filthy blue cock into your equally blue girlfriend in your own apartment, in the bed that you two are supposed to be sharing... but you sleep on the couch, don't you, Xavier?"

"What-"

Charles began to breathe faster.

"I know you keep three different types of antacids, Xavier. Berry flavoured ones. You have a thing for anything that's berry flavoured. Do you realise how pathetic that sounds, Xavier? That you buy three of the same product just because you like the taste when you can barely afford a proper meal? Do you realise how pathetic it also is that you actually do go through these three flavours of antacids before the expiry date? You can't even take care of your own health, Xavier."

"No! That's-"

"-not your fault, is it? Is it your boss' fault? Frost's? Well let me tell you, Xavier, why don't you stand up to Frost? Why do you let yourself be dragged around by that bitch in white, eh? You could stand up to her, but you don't. You let yourself be pushed around. Well, anyone who lets themselves be pushed around deserves to be pushed around. That's the truth, Xavier."

"THAT'S... NOT... FAIR!"

Charles' face was scarlet now, the veins on his forehead popping out alarmingly.

"A lot of things in life aren't fair, Xavier. The difference between the winners and the losers is that the losers just sit back and complain about them while the winners get their asses off the ground and go out and do something about it. Are you a winner or a loser, Xavier? This man and his accomplices were in the process of planning a move that would put 10,000 people out of work. Think of the lives that would be affected, Xavier. Parents won't be able to afford their kids' education. Some people will die without medical attention. Some families will be living on the streets. Are you going to let this bastard live and carry on with that plan? Are you going to let those people starve and die, Xavier? The blood will be on your hands."

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"So do it. Finish this man off. Or are you too much of a pussy?"

"DON'T... CALL... ME... PUSSY!"

Charles reached for the knife with his right hand and yanked it out of the man's testicles. Flecks of blood flew. He lunged forward and, with a yell, dragged the knife across the man's throat, slitting it clean. Blood gushed from the wound and splattered across the room. Erik ducked out of the way, while Charles got the full blast of it smack in his face. He dropped the knife and yelled.

"WHY DID YOU MAKE ME DO THAT? OH MY GOOOOOOOD... I'VE KILLED A PERSON, OH MY GOD, YOU MADE ME DO THAT, IT'S YOUR FAULT OH MY GOD OH MY GOD-"

"To be fair, Xavier, we both killed him. The knife in the testicles would have done it, but it would have been slow. If it makes you feel any better, you put him out of his misery."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OH MY GOOOOOOOOOD!"

Erik looked shiftily at the door while retrieving his knife. "We should get out of here. Come on, Xavier." He strolled towards the window. Charles followed.

"OH MY GOD YOU CRAZY PERSON WE'RE GOING TO BE IN SOOOOOO MUCH TROUBLE!"

"If you don't want to be in trouble, jump."

"WHAT!?"

"Jump."

Erik delivered a swift kick to Charles' buttocks with his boot, sending him screaming down towards Erik's convertible. Erik grinned, the rows and rows of his white teeth gleaming against the red that covered the room. He followed suit.


End file.
